


Angels Don't Fear the Reaper

by you-cant-spell-subtext-without (ayreisha)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst/slow burn/pining, Blood, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Season/Series 15, Some mature/explicit content in future chapters but can be skipped without ruining flow of story, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayreisha/pseuds/you-cant-spell-subtext-without
Summary: "When his eyes first open, there is nothing but darkness. Not the velvety, deep black of night, but the steely, thin murk of nothingness. Of cold.Of death. Of Death.Somehow, it feels like coming home."Dean dies to become Death, but then - things go horribly wrong.  Welcome to Supernatural - Season 17 (because Season 16 belongs to the fandom).WIP; updated every Saturday with a new playlist per chapter.  come yell at me ontumblr
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 98
Kudos: 84





	1. Love and Memories

[playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/62tMkDLc8prx0FZxxvNQA8?si=vPutcP34TlabMQVJDYi0NA)

_“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”_

_-_ from an Irish headstone

**_When I was a man I thought it ended_ **   
**_When I knew love's perfect ache_ **   
**_But my peace has always depended_ **   
**_On all the ashes in my wake_ **

-Hozier, “Arsonist’s Lullaby”

\- - - 

When his eyes first open, there is nothing but darkness. Not the velvety, deep black of night, but the steely, thin murk of nothingness. Of cold.

Of death. Of Death.

Somehow, it feels like coming home.

The remnants of memory swirl through him as his eyes adjust to the black. Moments from his past drift, slithering out of his brain, enveloping his body. Some dissolve quickly. Others pierce through him in their passing, like tiny electrical shocks, forcing Dean to relive them as they make their exit.

Dean falls through time, tumbling backwards, a descent from the world of the living to a new plane of existence. Ironically, it starts and ends the same way.

From death. To Death.

\- - - 

He’s in the barn, the pressure in his back, the dizzying feel of blood, of life, ebbing from his body, looking at Sam’s stricken eyes.

“I'll call for help. I'll get the first-aid kit.” Sam stammers. Dean sees it on his face. That resolve to keep him alive, anything, Sam will do anything as long as Dean keeps fighting. He will never believe Dean won’t keep fighting. He’ll do and give all that he has to keep Dean breathing, living, and here.

Dean steels his nerves. He fixes his face - rearranging his features into something softer, more vulnerable. More persuasive. He shakes his head; No.

“Sam, Sam! Sam...Stay wi...Stay with me. Can you stay with me, please?”

He feels everything go black as his perception starts to slip away. He’s falling, falling, through time, through space, falling away from life, hurtling towards something, and the memories course through him, like the hands of a clock turning backwards, scenes from Dean’s past flashing before his eyes like a movie playing on a screen. He’s remembering. Or is he forgetting?

\- - -

He’s in the bunker kitchen a few days earlier, and even the strongest cup of caffeine won’t take the edge off the knives slicing through Dean’s brain. He knuckles at his eyes and sinks his elbows into the wood of the small kitchen table, cradling the anvil currently masquerading as his head in his hands.

His eyes drift to the empty seat next to him…

No. Stop.

A haunting flash of blue eyes, spectre raised by his errant mind. A shock of black hair, always unruly in the mornings no matter how hard Cas tries to smooth it. The feel of a trench coat, scratchy and pliant on Dean’s fingertips. A tilt of the head.

“Long night?”

Sam’s voice jolts Dean out of the thoughts that just won’t stay put. He glances over at his brother, standing at the doorway dressed in sweats, fresh from a run.

“Mrghh.” He grunts, index finger pointing down at his cup, Dean-speak for he’s not yet at the level of caffeine early morning social interaction requires.

Sam’s forehead immediately crumples in concern.

“Dean – do you wanna – “ Sam shrugs uncomfortably, lip twitching. “Um, I – you know, I’m here if you wanna talk. I know it’s been hard with Cast- Cas-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, and he quickly slides a trademark scowl on his face, biting back any errant tears threatening to escape.

“I’m fine,” he chokes out gruffly. He gives a practiced shake of his head as if to say “It’s just the hangover.” If Dean knows how to do anything, it’s how to perform a part. He flashes a smile.

“Listen, I found us a case. Canton.”

\- - -

Another drop.

He’s falling again, away from the bunker kitchen and Sam, deeper this time as he feels the pull of his destination, yanking him like he’s hooked on a line, dragging him through the haze of the past.

A new recollection begins as his surroundings solidify, and oh, oh no, oh no. He doesn’t want to remember this one.

He’s back on that floor. Face in his hands. Heart in his mouth, still fighting so hard to get out the words he couldn’t say.

“Okay, Cas. I need to say something.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. He can’t hear him. There’s nothing of him left.

No blue eyes, sparkling as Cas smiles at Dean. No black hair, pushed back from his face with one hand while he furrows his brow, contemplating some ancient text.

No trench coat. Dean doesn’t even get to keep that small memento of Cas, to gently rub his thumb on a sleeve while it hangs in the closet, to keep in the trunk just in case Cas makes it back home. Dean’s fingertips twitch instinctively, reaching for fabric that no longer exists.

The only thing other than Dean in this room is a chair. Cold. Lifeless. Empty.

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.”

No, no, no.

The tears start again, his breathing rattling in his chest like he’s dying, like he’s already dead.

For once in his life, Dean lets the grief out, lets it wash over him in crushing waves, back bowed under their weight. He loses control, cries until he is a dried husk with sandpaper eyes, until he’s heaving and gasping for air like a fish thrown out of water onto arid land.

_Dammit, Cas._

Finally, his breathing evens.

Okay, okay. Okay. Death is not a finality. He can fix this.

He can find another way. He _will_ find another way.

He gets up off the floor.

There’s always another way.

\- - -

He’s ripped away from the sight of his own trembling jaw squaring in resolve, and Dean’s falling again. Further and faster he falls, picking up more speed as he barrels through the past.

This memory is even more distant. But warmer. Lighter.

He’s at the map table in the bunker, fingers wrapped around a cold beer. In this memory, Dean’s not alone.

Blue eyes meet his. Tinged with worry, but also – for the first time in months – with some semblance of relief.

Sitting next to Cas, Sam clears his throat uncomfortably, and glances over at Jack. He sounds like he is trying to change the subject, even if nothing was being discussed to begin with.

“Jack, you…you ate their hearts?”

Jack, dear Jack, remains an open book. “I…I had to.”

Dean shakes his head, still trying to keep his own heart from leaping out of his chest. He’s back. Their kid is back. He’s back, and Cas’s eyes are almost sparkling again, his shoulders are straighter. He’s back and Cas is breathing easier, Cas is _smiling,_ he’s smiling at Dean, and it means maybe, just maybe things are going to be okay.

Maybe things with him and Cas are going to be okay.

Dean thinks back to purgatory.

Hell, maybe they’ll be better than ok.

Just for a moment, Dean loses all self-control, and he – he lets himself. He lets himself forget everyone else, everything else, just for a moment, his gaze pinned to Cas’s face.

Cas tilts his head. The tiniest of movements, but it shocks Dean out of his reverie.

Shit. What were they just talking about? Jack eating hearts, right.

Dean realigns his features, feigning concerned confusion, and directs the expression at Cas.

“And you let him?”

Cas nods, that quizzical look on his face still pointed at Dean.

Dean’s pupils dart like ping pong balls. _Shit_. “Hmm.”

He catches the tail end of the conversation over the drumming of his own heart, as Jack continues, “...every day I wanted to come home, but…I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Dean seizes the chance to jump back in, tearing his eyes away from Cas, but the dull roar of the blood still rushing to his head drowns out most of Jack’s response.

Cas clears his throat. “Billie kept him hidden in the Empty until Chuck went off world,” he explains.

Jack nods in affirmation. “She let me out when it was safe.” He shrugs. “She said pulling beings out of the Empty is within Death’s powers.” He looks over at Dean with a crooked smile, looking so much like Cas that Dean thinks his chest may actually burst at the sight of them both in the same room again. Alive. Safe.

_I have a family._

Dean brushes off the emotions, nudging Jack’s shoulder playfully. “So Death can boot sorry suckers from the Empty, huh? Who knew?”

He chances another grin at Cas. “Woulda been useful to know that before, eh Huckleberry? Could’ve just swiped Death’s ring last time, instead of waiting on you to get back earthside on your own.”

Cas rolls his eyes at the nickname, clearly remembering that ridiculous hat Dean made him wear the last time he used it.

Dean kicks his feet up on the table, pleased to have nailed the reference. He loved that hat. And hey, Cas deserved _some_ kind of reward for annoying a cosmic entity so much it sent him back home.

Cas sighs. “You’d have to die permanently to become Death, Dean. I’d imagine that, amongst other things that come with the job, would be most unpleasant.”

The words come out of Dean’s mouth before he can rethink them. “Hey man, I’d have done anything, no matter how ‘unpleasant,’ if it meant getting you back.”

Cas’s blue eyes soften. “Dean, I -”

Cas’s words are swallowed by the loud clatter of Dean, face red as a tomato, falling completely off his chair.

\- - -

He’s falling again, not from the chair this time but to another remnant of the past, the memory of Cas’s hands awkwardly helping him up after Dean spewed those embarrassing words dissolving like ice on a hot summer day, seeping through the cracks of time. Another drop, further down. Further back.

He’s staring at his own body, not in the barn this time, but before, before, years ago, lifeless on the ground in an old house. That old job, with the lobotomy doctor. Those scared little kids.

He remembers the searing pain in his chest just days prior to that case, feeling it all over again - the sheer agony of preparing Cas’s body for burning. The heaviness of loss is an almost familiar ache now, but that doesn’t lessen its weight. Dean knows this feeling well, he’s walked with it before. He’s walking with it now. The feeling of wanting to die from grief.

The anguish of losing Cas in the memory merges with the fresh pain he hasn’t been able to shake since -

No. no. no. He already relived that, he’s not going to go back and think about it again. His consciousness nudges his thoughts back to the current memory, playing on the screen of his mind.

Sam is shaking Dean’s still body. This Sam is younger, less focused than the one Dean left behind in the barn. He’s frantic, because Dean’s plan, his stupid, stupid plan has gone entirely wrong.

Dean remembers this, yes, he remembers this plan to die. He had to die, just temporarily - to save those kids, he told Sammy.

He admits the truth to himself now. He had to die to save those kids, yeah, but also he had to get _out_ ; had to get away from the grief relentlessly pulsing in his veins, the despair carving itself into his very bones. As if losing Cas means that Dean’s body is also once again lost, reverting back to that state of fire and brimstone. Of hell and damnation.

The undeserving righteous man, nothing without his angel there to lift him.

And so Dean is dead in this memory, too, and he is watching himself watch...himself, as Dean’s spirit in the memory stares along with him at his (their?) cold, lifeless body. Two sets of eyes, one from the actual memory, ghostly, and one…whatever, _wherever_ he is now, all four equally helpless.

“Dean. Dean? Hey! Dean? Wake up, Dean.” Sam is still trying, still fighting to keep Dean alive.

“That’s enough of that.” The scene freezes. Dean - memory Dean - turns. Billie.

“No, I saw – I saw C-Cas kill you.”

His mouth can barely get the name out.

Billie smirks, toying with the scythe in her hand. “How’s that working out for him?”

In his mind he sees it play out again, blue eyes, locked on his as Cas jumps through the rift between worlds, Dean sighing in relief that he is safe. Black hair shining in the moonlight as Cas lifts his head to look at him.

The shock of Lucifer’s blade piercing the angel’s trench coat, slicing cleanly through the fabric, point emerging through Cas’s chest.

The light pouring out of him.

The _life_ pouring out of him.

No, no, no.

Dean wills his features into stone; slams down the tide of emotion welling in his chest. He knows how to take control, make his body fit the scene. Like a costume. Like a mask.

Billie watches him, smirking knowingly. “It’s funny to hear a Winchester talk about the finality of dying. This reality – it has rules, Dean. So many rules. And one of them? Kill one incarnation of Death, like you did, the next Reaper to die takes his place. So…when Castiel stabbed me in the back, turns out, I got a promotion.”

She twists the ring on her hand, almost lovingly. “New job. New gear.”

“So you died to become Death?”

Billie’s lips curve into a smile. “This universe can be so many things, and sometimes, it is poetic.”

\- - -

He’s ripped from one memory and flung to another, each time going deeper into the past.

Now he’s walking the hallways of a hospital, the cold metal of a ring around his finger. He looks down at it. Death’s ring. He’s Death for a day, a bet he made to get Sam’s soul back, when it was still trapped in the Cage.

“Dean, you have to take her,” The reaper Tessa murmurs beside him. Death/Dean watches the little girl in the hospital bed.

Dean’s expression is defiant. “Says who?”

“Death.” The air is thick with Tessa’s exasperation, but Dean is unbothered. He shrugs, twisting the ring around his finger.

“ _I’m_ Death.”

\- - -

The hospital dissolves as Dean is pulled further down.

He’s dying again in the next memory, lying on his back on the operating table, in the apartment above that meat market. 232 Keefer. He remembers. This is when he summoned Tessa, using the words scribbled in the margins of some dusty encyclopedia from Bobby’s collection.

He’s in his body and then he isn’t.

“No pulse, no sinus rhythm.”

“He’s dead.”

Dean hears himself speak the summoning words, and he commits them firmly to his present memory. The rest of the scene slips away as he continues to fall.

\- - -

He’s back in Chicago, sitting at a table. Ah yes, this place, this small sliver of his prior life - when the apocalypse was imminent, when Sammy was drinking demon blood to try and save the world. When Dean had been to Hell but he hadn’t yet met God.

When Cas was still wild, feral, almost. A warrior. When Dean couldn’t quite name the buzz quaking deep in his chest that started the second Cas appeared, on a flutter of angel wings, always landing just a little too close. When the handprint on Dean’s shoulder was one of burned skin and not of blood.

Dean wonders if Cas loved him, in some way, even then.

_I rebelled. And I did it - all of it - for you._

_You’re different._

_I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You._

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved._

His thoughts are distracting him again, and he turns his attention back to the memory. He’s eating pizza. Strange thing to be doing when the apocalypse looms on the horizon.

What’s stranger is who he is eating pizza with.

“There’s your ridiculous bravado again.” Death scoffs at him, meticulously spinning a string of melted cheese around his fork. Dean forces down the small bite of pizza though he can barely stomach it. Still, when Death insists you eat, you . . . eat.

“I understand you want this.“ Death holds up his ring.

It _beckons_ to him. “Yeah.” Dean puts his fork down.

Something knowing glints in Death’s eyes. “I’m inclined to give it to you.”

“To give it to me?”

A humorless smile stretches over Death’s teeth. “That’s what I said.”

\- - -

As sudden as it begins, the onslaught of the past sputters and slows, and Dean is back in his most recent recollections, he’s back in what is almost the present now. Almost, but not quite.

He remembers it as if it just happened. Did it just happen? Or has it been ages? He isn’t quite sure anymore.

_Dean Winchester is in the veil._

Dean knows, _feels it_ , when his spirit reaches the veil and that’s when he fights the falling. He fights to stay there, in the space between.

His mind flashes back one last time, to another in-between space, another limbo between Heaven and Hell.

Blue eyes, pure, gazing into his. Black hair, matted with blood and dirt. A hand on his left shoulder, rough fingertips brushing his cheek. He grabs the memory, clings to it. An anchor. His reason for this stupid, stupid plan.

_Cas._

God, if this works, if he actually does get Cas out of the Empty, there is no doubt in Dean’s mind that Cas is gonna be so very angry at him.

But even if he never speaks to Dean again for going through with this, it will be worth it to have Cas back home. Alive. Safe.

_I have a family._

_You’re gonna bring him back._

He steadies himself. _He_ is in control. No more thoughts about the past. Gotta focus on the future now. He hardens his jaw.

“Okay, go time.” This better work. He hopes he remembers the reaper summoning spell correctly.

“Messorum evoco qui me tetigit.”

The reaper appears. Dean gives her a cheeky wink.

“Hear you guys got a job opening.”

\- - -

The whisps of this final memory pass through him, hazier and hazier like smoke from a cooling fire, until all moments that made up his prior life are behind him.

He is empty. He is cold. He is a vessel. He is chosen. He _has_ chosen.

He slides the ring on his finger.

He feels the scythe in his hand.

The veil swirls around him, a pulsing thing, containing everything and nothing all at once. No good here, and no evil. Just the natural order of things. His eyes adjust, and he sees the reapers circling around him. Waiting. Watching.

It’s peaceful, really.

Something scratches at the back of his mind, like a tickle. Like a whisper.

_What would you rather have, Dean? Peace? Or freedom?_

Blue eyes. Black hair. The feel of…something? Someone? On his fingertips.

He can’t remember.

He straightens his body, and looks at his reapers, waiting for their orders. His lips curve into a smile that stretches slowly over his teeth, and he toys with the scythe in his hands. He twists the ring, almost lovingly.

_It’s time to get to work._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to write this <3
> 
> My undying thanks and deepest gratitude to my betas - Rayah, Fells, and Linds; you are all incredible, talented, and unbelievably patient for letting me yell at you about Death!Dean at all hours of the day and night.
> 
> This one's for Cas and Dean. You deserved better.


	2. Stuck inside a Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas spent years observing Dean on earth, and now he’s doomed to continue those observations for eternity, destined in death as in life to gaze upon Dean forever, the memory of their final moments together playing on repeat as Cas sleeps in the nothingness...
> 
> Until, one day – everything changes. 
> 
> Dean’s heart stops. His face fades away. Cas wakes up.
> 
> He opens his eyes.

[ playlist here ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FLgTDCc3Esmf9fGn5HXku?si=qbywW2OHSDKeqiBfK_EFvg)

_**"No grave can hold my body down,** _

_**I'll crawl home to her"** _

_-_ Hozier, "Work Song"

\- - -

His face.

Even here in the Empty, Cas can’t get away from his face. A memory, on repeat.

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.”

Green tear-filled eyes stare into his, the pupils dilated in shock and realization. The column of Dean’s throat works wildly, as it does whenever he is trying to process something monumental, trying to fathom the total impact of Cas’s words. The corner of Dean’s lip quivers like he’s about to speak. 

And then –

Black ooze.

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.”

Cas spent years observing Dean on earth, and now he’s doomed to continue those observations for eternity, destined in death as in life to gaze upon Dean forever, the memory of their final moments together playing on repeat as Cas sleeps in the nothingness.

The memory starts over, and Cas sees it again. Dean’s face, lined in pain and desperation.

“Everybody’s gonna die, Cas. Everybody. I can’t stop it.”

Dean looks at Cas, and Cas looks back, _seeing_ Dean. The real Dean, not the mask he so carefully wears around everyone else. Dean’s guard is down completely, the tears glinting in his eyes. Cas, who knows every molecule of Dean intimately, understands how very rare it is for Dean to be so vulnerable. 

_Still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester._

Because Cas does know Dean. He feels when Dean is sad, even though Dean shrouds his despair in anger. Cas understands when Dean is scared because that’s when Dean weaponizes humor, cracking wildly inappropriate jokes. Cas grasps immediately when something cuts Dean the deepest, because it’s exactly when Dean acts the most okay. 

Cas knows Dean Winchester like the back of his own hand, and that’s why Cas understands the gravity of _this_ moment; the sheer magnitude of the fact that Dean’s not even _trying_ to be okay now. 

“She’s going to kill you. Then she’s going to kill me.” Dean says, looking at Cas like his world is crumbling around him, like Dean’s heart is splintering right there in plain sight. 

Cas relives it again in the remembering, feels himself fill with understanding and calm realization. _Dean Winchester is not going to die_. 

Cas is going to save him. 

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.”

The memory starts again, and Cas is looking at Dean’s face. The blond tips of his feathery eyelashes twinkle like dewdrops, surrounding Dean's green eyes; the freckles sprinkling across his cheeks are more beautiful than any constellations Chuck could create. Dean’s nose. Jaw. Lips. Face.

Cas can’t move. He’s frozen. 

Stuck in that moment right _before_ , staring at Dean. Knowing.

Knowing that to save Dean means Cas has to leave him. 

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.”

The memory of Dean’s eyes fixed on his.

Cas still hears him, here in the Empty, even asleep. He feels Dean’s heartbeat pulsing through his blood, thrumming in his ears, like a lifeline, a tether, that profound bond still connecting them here in the domain of the Shadow, but it’s not strong enough to pull Cas out of his slumber. He tries at first, grasping desperately for that slim awareness of Dean’s life force to yank himself back to consciousness. To wake up, to return home somehow, to get back to Dean – but it doesn’t work, it never works. 

He always ends up back there, in that moment, watching Dean, lost in Dean’s eyes one final time before the Empty takes him. God, Cas loves him. But his love for Dean isn’t enough to wake him up. 

And eventually Cas lets himself rest, sleeping with Dean’s pulsating heartbeat by his side, a constant reminder even in his eternal slumber that Dean is alive. Safe.

The memory continues to play.

“I love you. Goodbye, Dean.” 

Until, one day – everything changes. The lifeline flares brightly, searing hot just for a second - and disappears. Cas can’t feel Dean’s heartbeat. The realization rocks Cas so violently it jolts him out of the memory loop.

Dean Winchester is gone.

Dean’s heart stops. His face fades away. Cas wakes up.

He opens his eyes.

And the Empty is _loud_.

\- - -

Bodies are everywhere. Some are sleeping, half-mired in the ooze, still stuck in the endless loops inside their minds. Others are sitting awake and upright, some talking to each other, some still and silent. Angels and demons, most remaining separate in their respective corners - but a few skirmishes have erupted, like bubbles in the lava of a volcano, blades shining out of the blackness, ringing as they clash, adding to the cacophony. 

A cluster of demons chatter wildly over what appears to be a makeshift game of poker, all accusing each other of cheating. 

A circle of angels stand in meditation, one of them leading a Gregorian chant.

The Shadow is nowhere to be found.

Cas stands quietly amidst it all, awake but somehow still frozen in the chaos. His thoughts drag sluggishly. The imprint of Dean’s green eyes drifts before his. Is he still dreaming? Suddenly - it hits him. He can’t feel Dean. The panic starts to rise in Cas’s chest as he concentrates harder, focusing all of his energy into searching for the hum of Dean’s life force, seeking his warmth. _Where is Dean?_

Cas strains again, trying to manifest the feel of that link, that profound bond between them back into existence. He feels nothing.

_Dean is gone._

Someone pokes Cas’s shoulder. 

“Hey, man. Didn’t realize there were more of us down here!” The shadow shifts, and a figure is floating above Cas, their features blinking from one nightmarish expression to the next.

A reaper.

Cas jerks backwards, eyes still glazed over with the remnants of sleep. “What do you mean, more of us? I’m nothing like you.” 

The reaper drifts closer to Cas, their hazy expression shifting into something that can only be described as puzzled. “Hmmmm, you’re really not, huh? Wow, I thought everyone preferred true form, but w-o-a-h, this is a development. Huh, what a peculiar little dude you are.”

Cas drags a hand over his face, trying to pull his scrambled mind into some semblance of coherency. “What are you doing here? Did Billie send you after me?” The thought of Billie ricochets Cas’s thoughts right back to the memory of Dean, the sudden departure of Dean’s presence gaping like a wound in Cas’s chest. 

The reaper’s gauzy form vibrates. Like they’re laughing at him. “Dude, dude, _dude_ c’mon. Chill out. Billie’s long gone, the Shadow put a kibosh on her; prob’ly happened while you were asleep.” The reaper darts back and forth in front of Cas, making him feel even dizzier. “I wanted that promo bad, man, but Betty got the job next. Short-lived, though.”

“I- I don’t know of anyone named Betty.” _Why is he even talking to this reaper?_ He needs to find Dean. He turns to leave, but the reaper twists around Cas, mist-like, gossamer in the darkness, cutting off his escape. 

“You’re not really a chatterbox, are you? Not like me. Subtlety’s not really my jam.” The reaper sighs, flipping in the air again. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. Wonder how long he’ll stay mad. People get over stuff eventually, that’s what I’ve learned. Though I don’t know if dude’s technically a _person_ anymore.”

Cas stares at them. "What?" 

"Aren’t you listening at all? The new boss. Death. Threw me in here. Said something about getting sick of my face, or my voice... i-d-k... I didn’t really listen. Guy is weird, anyway. Makes everybody listen to his old dad music, and he's made some changes that are..." The reaper laughs then, studying Cas's face, looking intrigued. "Well I don't know. I'm starting to think that maybe you get that better than I do." 

Cas is still having a hard time processing any information, his mind whirring, trying to come up with reasons for Dean's sudden disappearance. What broke the bond? Cas starts to pace, restless with worry. He looks off into the distance. How long has he been asleep? Days? Years? 

“What year is it?” He asks the reaper.

“Dude you really are out of it, huh? It’s March, 2021.” 

Cas swallows. _Five months._ It’s been five months since he last saw Dean. 

The reaper babbles relentlessly in the background of Cas’s spinning thoughts. “At least _someone_ had the courtesy to actually snuff you all the way out. New boss just, like, _yeeted_ me here, and I can’t even sleep because he didn’t kill me properly or anything. What a stick-up-his-ass kinda dude, man. Just chucked me into the Empty for being _too chill_.” 

The reaper gives an exasperated huff. “Can’t we normalize chilling the fuck out yet?” 

This confuses Cas, but that feeling is overpowered by the singular frenzy that continues to build in his mind. _Dean. He has to find Dean._

He’s momentarily distracted by the ringing of blades - some scuffle in the background, as the reaper’s voice drones on. “Anyway, he’s some _pretty boy_ hot shot; everyone was always talking about him even before he entered the veil. Apparently his entire life he’s always been reckless, insouciant, even - been to heaven, hell, and back - but actually signing on to play Death? A human willingly putting on the ring? Man, he must truly be out of his damn mind.” 

Cas stares at the reaper. The reaper gives Cas a shadowy smirk, gazing contemplatively at him. “Wonder what drove him off _that_ cliff?” 

Just then Cas hears his name. He turns away from the strange reaper, searching for the familiar voice in the chaos.

“Castiel!” 

No, it can’t be.

Jack is barreling through a tangle of demons, shoving them aside with blasts of golden light.

“Castiel!” 

Jack’s eyes find Cas, and he flies to him, arms wide open, squeezing him tightly.

Cas’s arms wrap around Jack weakly, his mouth working but useless, struggling to find the words to say something, anything. Jack pulls back from the hug, tears in his eyes. Cas stares at him, and belatedly stammers out. “Am - am I still dreaming?” His mind is sluggish, as if mired in quicksand, his body still reeling from the loss of Dean’s presence.

_Where’s Dean?_

“No - you’re awake.” Jack’s voice cracks. “You’re finally awake. I’ve been here for weeks, searching for your grace but I couldn’t sense it until just now.” He hugs him again, tighter now. ‘I can’t believe I finally found you. W- we needed this. We needed a win.”

Cas shakes his head in disbelief. “No, no. This can’t be right. I’m dead. Jack, I’m dead. You’re not here. I’m just dreaming. I’ve been dreaming for so long, though it’s been mostly about - ” 

_Dean. Where’s Dean? He can’t feel Dean._ He feels his vision begin to blur.

Some kind of roar is erupting behind them, and the Empty starts to quake with the sound of thundering footsteps, a roar of something demonic or angelic, or maybe even a mixture of both. The commotion seems to be heading their way. 

Jack grips Cas’s shoulders tightly. “No, no. This is real. _I’m_ real. And we’ve gotta go, we’ve gotta get out of here. There’s, um - probably a few things awake that aren’t too pleased with you.” Cas semi- _remembers_ through his haze then - and, oh Jack is right. It’s possible Cas may actually have a few enemies here, angels and demons, casualties of the life Cas thought ended when he said goodbye to Dean. _Dean._ The gravity of Dean’s absence hits Cas again, leaving him breathless. 

Jack’s hands are still on Cas’s shoulders. “Cast-” Jack’s voice breaks, heavy with emotion. “ _Dad_. Please, we have to go.” 

Cas looks into Jack’s open, honest face, and suddenly the fog in his brain begins to clear. “Jack?”

Jack nods.

“You’re really here.” 

Jack wraps his arms around him again. “I’m here. Let’s go home.”

\- - -

They’re sitting at the bunker kitchen table, the three of them and one glaringly empty stool.

Sam shakes his head again in disbelief, staring at Cas like he’s a figment of his imagination. Cas sort of feels that way himself, actually - not fully real, still dazed, foggy. What did Sam call it? 

Shock. Cas, apparently is in shock. This is normal, according to Sam and his backup source, some new kind of lore called WebMD.

Cas opens his mouth, then closes it. He hasn’t been able to form words since they got back from the Empty; since Sam almost fainted when he opened the bunker door and saw them standing there, Jack grinning triumphantly, Cas still half-wondering when this odd new dream would loop back into the old, familiar one. The one that started with Dean’s green eyes.

_Where is Dean?_

Sam turns to Jack, some unspoken question on his face that Cas can’t decipher. 

Jack quietly shakes his head. Sam’s face crumples. He looks at Cas again, like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Jack gets up. “I - I want to get some cereal. Sam, can you - uh can you help me find the milk?” Sam follows Jack to the fridge.

 _Something is wrong_. Cas watches them quietly.

Sam is speaking to Jack now, their voices low, urgent whispers. Cas thinks he can hear Sam’s voice cracking slightly. Sam’s shoulders sag, and he pinches his nose like he’s holding back tears. Cas’s hearing goes in and out like he’s underwater, but he strains to listen. Jack’s filling Sam in on his own time in the Empty, two weeks spent there tirelessly searching for Cas, and all of a sudden Sam’s voice rises, becoming louder, more frantic.

“Ok, so you’re telling me – you’re saying, you ran into a – a reaper? In the Empty, before you found Cas? And he talked to you about the new Death?” Sam rakes his hair back from his forehead, beginning to pace, his movements growing increasingly erratic.

Jack nods. “Apparently he used to be human.”

Cas vaguely remembers having a similar conversation, but his brain can’t seem to make the jump to speaking this thought out loud. He sits silently, the buzz in his ears ebbing and flowing as the conversation continues. Something about the new Death is important, because Sam is growing more and more agitated, peppering Jack with quick back to back questions now. “Did he say if there’s anything different? Just with what they’re doing to souls? I mean there’s gotta be a reason no one knows where it is, where Dean’s -”

At the sound of Dean’s name, Cas somehow manages words. “Sam,” he says hoarsely, “Sam - where’s Dean?”

Jack and Sam freeze. Jack makes his way back over to Cas, placing a hand on his shoulder. Cas looks up at him in fuzzy confusion. Jack’s face is drawn and sad as he glances back at Sam. Cas’s ears are still roaring, his body heavy like lead. 

Sam’s shoulders are starting to shake, his hands gripping the steel counter in front of him so tightly that his knuckles are going white.“Uh, Cas - “ Sam says carefully, his eyes red and blotchy. “Dean’s gone.”

Cas starts to sway, and suddenly Jack’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright. The panic is pulsing through Cas like an electric shock, his mouth a thin, trembling line. 

“Cas.” Sam is crying now, the tears streaming freely down his face as he looks at Cas, his eyes full of apology. Of pity. “Cas, I’m so sorry, he’s - he’s dead. I burned his body myself.” Sam’s face folds in on itself, and suddenly he’s breaking, pitching forwards on his elbows over the counter, face in his hands, tears streaming freely through his fingers.

Cas blinks rapidly, the pit in his stomach opening wider as Sam’s words slowly sink in. 

_Dean is dead. No._ _This isn’t real. Dean can’t be dead._

Cas pushes the quaking lump in his throat back down. He’s not going to fall apart. Not here. Not now. This is a dream; it's not real. He’s in the Empty, still. He’s got to be.

_Dean’s alive. Safe._

Cas grabs on to that thought and clings to it, tries to remember the feel of Dean’s life force, tries to will the presence of it back into existence. He glances at Sam, then at Jack, his eyes darting wildly. “I-” he manages, hoarsely. “I have to go.” He staggers out of the kitchen, fighting the despair building in his body, tearing him apart from within.

\- - -

Cas can still hear the low buzz of Sam and Jack’s voices as he jerks through the bunker like a man possessed, almost catatonic, eyes dry and itchy. He doesn’t bother to respond when he hears the sound of his name called behind him. _He needs to lay down. Maybe if he can just lay down, close his eyes. This dream will end then. He’ll be back in that moment, looking at Dean._ Cas pauses at the door of the guest bedroom. 

Passes it over and heads towards Dean’s. 

Just the feel of his hand on the doorknob ricochets Cas’s heart into his throat. Dean’s room. He slumps in the doorway as his eyes gaze inside, using the wall to steady himself as he tries to find his bearings. Cas lets himself remember; lets the grief slowly well higher and higher in his chest. How many times has he been in this room, whether in reality or in his own mind. How many prayers has he heard Dean say in here, sometimes alert and sitting up in bed, sometimes lying down right before sleep overtook him. 

_Cas? Cas I hope you can hear me. . . that wherever you are, it’s not too late._

Sometimes even doing it “the right way, ok Cas, I’m tryin’ here” - Dean kneeling like a small child with his elbows on his bed, eyes closed, head bowed.

_You’re my best friend, but I just let you go._

How many tears has Cas felt Dean wipe away, as Dean twisted his headphones into his ears, letting the music wash over him, a small comfort in a life filled with burden and pain.

_I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know - I know that it’s - i - it’s just always been there._

Suddenly and furiously, Cas’s own tears overtake him now, and he sags against the door frame, taking deep breaths that turn into choking sobs. 

_Of course I forgive you._

He stumbles inside Dean’s room quickly, closing the door behind him, hoping ardently Sam and Jack can’t hear that he is completely and utterly falling apart. Once inside he presses his face to the wall, tries to staunch the torrent streaming down his face.

_Cas, I’m - I’m so sorry._

He gives the wall a quiet but hard punch, bruising his knuckles. Letting the pain push out the sadness.

_Damn it. Damn it, Dean. You should be alive. You should be here. What did you do? What stupid, reckless, asinine thing did you do?_

Cas wipes his face with his sleeve, careening towards Dean’s bed, unmade and messy, the bedspread uncharacteristically balled up in the corner - a sharp contrast to Dean’s usual neatness, his trademark military-style corners. The memory of Dean’s bright smile drifts across his mind, Dean’s eyes twinkling as he pulls the sheets taught over the mattress. 

_Day don’t start ‘til your bed’s made, Cas. Only good piece of life advice my old man ever gave me._

Cas feels himself starting to break, his bones splintering, suddenly incapable of holding up under his skin. He fights to stay steady, trying to distract himself from the pain by glancing around Dean’s room, taking it all in. He scans the floors, the bed, the knick knacks on the shelf, all so very _Dean_ , but reduced to nothing without him there. Just plastic, cotton, wood. Dull. Mundane.

Cas’s eyes move to the drawer in Dean’s nightstand, ajar, the edge of it slightly pushed out to the right. The corner of something sticks out from its depths.

 _Dean usually keeps that locked_ , Cas remembers, knuckling his eyes. Feeling like he is intruding on some terrible and wondrous secret, Cas gently tugs the drawer all the way open. He pulls out a notebook with pages covered in Dean’s handwriting.

He sits back on the bed, again overwhelmed with emotion.

Dean kept a diary.

Cas blinks furiously against the new resurgence of tears, and he can no longer hold himself upright - thank God the bed is there because he’s falling over on it now, face collapsing into Dean’s pillow. It still smells like him. He envelops it in his arms, letting the scent of Dean shatter him entirely as the world crumbles around him.

_Dean is gone._

_Dean is dead._

\- - -

His sobs are softer now, just quiet shudders when Sam finally finds him, hours later.

“Cas? I - “ Sam freezes in the doorframe, looking like he wants to run for approximately twenty miles in the opposite direction at the sight of Cas breaking down in a tearful mess in Dean’s bed.

Cas pulls himself together and sits up, turning to Sam, and - miraculously - remembers how to speak. “Sam. I’m fine. I - I’m okay.” Discreetly, Cas tucks Dean’s diary in his trench coat pocket, feeling a little guilty. 

“Cas. No, you’re not. None of us are okay,” Sam chokes out. Cas scooches over to make room as Sam sits down on Dean’s bed next to him. Sam hesitates for a moment, then throws his arm around Cas’s shoulder, giving it a quick brotherly squeeze before dropping his arm listlessly to his side. They both look at the ground, staring silently.

Sam wipes a stray tear from his own face. “I haven’t been in here since - “ He takes a shuddering breath. “Couldn’t stomach it.” He looks at Cas ruefully. Cas feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. Of course. This has been hard on Sam, too. “I- I’m sorry you had to do this all alone.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth jerk slightly in response, and it’s almost a smile. “It’s good to have you back, Cas.”

\- - -

Sam gently coaxes Cas out of Dean’s room, Cas still stooped with sadness, shoulders bowing like an old man’s, face pinched and unrecognizable. He sits down stiffly next to Jack at the map table. Jack’s hand covers his, gives it a brief squeeze. 

Sam is babbling anxiously now, trying to fill the space surrounding them with words, actively working to push back the silence that threatens to send Cas back into his own thoughts, to that place of painful darkness. “So yeah, the weird thing is,” Sam huffs out a breath, drumming his fingers in a staccato on an outline of Europe, “um, we - we can’t find his soul. Dean’s. I wanted to keep tabs on it just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. But there’s no sign of it anywhere.” 

Cas actually manages a fragile nod at that, and Sam, encouraged, looks over at Jack. Jack understands immediately, picking up the thread of conversation as they both try to talk Cas back into some semblance of sanity. Of purpose.

“I’ve - I’ve been checking for his soul in heaven since we got back, Castiel. Nothing yet.”

Sam pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes as he lets out a slow, measured sigh. “I- I talked with Rowena right after he died. Just to, you know, make sure. Since he’s been to hell before I wasn’t sure if – “ He clears his throat, lip trembling, and Cas feels the pricks of tears in his own eyes. “Anyway,” Sam continues, “She said his soul’s not there.” 

“I was disappointed, actually, I was so hoping we could catch up,” a voice murmurs from the corner of the room.

Even in Cas’s current state there’s no mistaking that familiar Scottish purr. Cas turns his head to see the Queen of Hell leaning against the doorway, perfectly attired in a tailored black jumpsuit.

“Hello, boys.” She saunters over, pouring herself a scotch from the decanter on the table. 

“I was already thinking about popping by,“ she pauses, and her gaze softens as she looks at Sam’s drawn, blotchy face. “Then a little birdie dropped the red alert that a _very_ handsome angel left the premises of the Empty today, so I just had to confirm the good news for myself.” 

She ruffles Cas’s hair in passing. “Hello, tweetie-pie.” She stops. Looks down at Cas’s expression, her brows drawing together in concern, and she glances back over at Sam.

Sam gives her a tight shake of his head. 

Rowena looks back at Cas sympathetically, briefly grazing his cheek with her hand, then perches herself on the arm of Sam’s chair. “So, what’s this I overheard? Dean’s soul hasn’t shown up in heaven either? Tsk, tsk, tsk, what has our boy gone and done now?”

\- - -

Cas feels lost. He’s been ushered away from the map table, where Sam is spreading out various lore books Rowena brought along, after gently but firmly telling Cas that he is in no state to help with anything.

Jack is outside tuning into angel radio “because reception’s better,” but somehow Cas has a feeling Jack, too, is trying to give Cas some space right now. _Jack may need a moment himself_. Cas frowns, remembering what Sam explained earlier. It’s only been a few weeks since Dean’s passing, and just five months before that, Jack lost Cas. 

Cas’s heart drops again at the thought of Jack learning about Dean’s death while in the depths of the Empty, having to push through his own hurt because he needed to find and rescue Cas. An entirely different wave of pain runs through Cas. He shakes it off, his eyes searching for something, anything to keep him busy so he doesn’t crack back open at the thought that Dean is -.

_No._

He rocks unsteadily as the grief rises again, and suddenly Rowena is at his elbow, squeezing it lightly, pulling him back to the present. “Fancy a wee cuppa tea, darling?” Her voice feigns brightness, but her face is lined with deep concern. Cas shakes his head _no,_ rubbing a hand weakly over his bleary eyes. He attempts a smile, spreading his palms out as if to say _I’m fine._

Rowena clucks her tongue. “Ch-ch-ch, dearie, I’m just going to say it - someone’s got to. You’re in a simply miserable state. Don’t pretend you aren’t. You just came back from the dead yourself after all, and to this news?” She lightly cups Cas’s face with the palm of her hand, stroking a finger over his cheek gently. “Maybe give yourself a chance to absorb it, pet. Take the time to mourn him.” She sashays towards the kitchen, tossing a backwards sympathetic glance over her shoulder at Cas. 

_Take the time to mourn him_. Cas doesn’t even know how to begin. He shoves both hands into the pockets of his trench coat to steady himself, and one hand bumps up against the diary. He runs a finger over the spine of the notebook, and drags it out, turning it gently in his palms. 

Cas’s hands tremble as he holds the precious thing, caressing the cover, thinking of the pages filled with Dean’s thoughts, hopes, worries. _Dean_. Suddenly, Cas understands how Adam felt when Eve offered him the apple.

He shouldn’t read this. This is something private. Something Dean wrote for himself, his final words memorialized on paper. But -

_Take the time to mourn him._

Cas makes the decision and opens the notebook. 

_“Listen, I got a weird thing about journals. Probably because of my dad. But this just seemed like what I needed to do..”_

Cas’s throat tightens, and he leafs through the pages gently with shaking hands. He reads bits here and there, too dizzy with emotion to focus on one full entry at a time. Cas hears every snippet he reads ringing in his mind, as if Dean himself is speaking the words out loud. 

_“Saw a honeybee today. Reminded me of a memory from a while ago, here’s a thing about bees you may not know. . .”_

_“Watched Tombstone again, remember how cool it was to go to Dodge City, really felt like I was starring in the movie myself. Cowboys. Are. Awesome.”_

Cas comes across little sketches in some of the margins, a lot of the Impala, but some of people too, studies of eyes, hair, a jawline. One that looks like what Dean imagines angel wings to be. 

_Can’t decide if the feathers would be black or a color. Definitely not just white though, that’s way too boring. Oh, maybe rainbow, that would be cool._

Cas runs his fingers over a doodle of his own trench coat. Flipping past the drawing, he spots something dedicated to _Cas’s silly little sayings_. “I don’t understand that reference” is written somewhere halfway down the page. 

Suddenly a folded piece of paper tumbles from the back cover. It’s a typed list of spellbooks on reaper summoning, and a note in Dean’s careful handwriting above it. 

“ _Lore on how to become Death._ ”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this Deangirl chose to write a fic that is at least 50% Cas POV and also decided that the first attempt to write Cas would be a raw emotional breakdown. Needless to say this damn angel almost murdered me. Literal blood, sweat, and tears in these pages, buddies.
> 
> Anything good you see here is entirely due to the tireless work of my betas (and anything bad is likely due to my Dean coded stubborn refusal to listen when I should have ;)) - Rayah, Fells, and Linds - I owe you everything! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your hard work and help.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts (good and bad!) in the comments or come yell at me on Tumblr; feedback is so helpful and gives me EVERY fuzzy feeling <3


	3. You Buried Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reapers don’t sleep. They do, however, need time to recharge, to merge with the veil momentarily as their angelic grace is replenished by the core of its energy. This means soul collecting is shift work, assigned and scheduled by Death himself. Every morning, Death determines who reaps what, all consistent with each reaper’s grace levels, experience, and of course propensity to persuade a soul to abandon the physical realm.
> 
> Well, at least that’s what Death is supposed to do. Most days, he doesn’t really feel like it.

[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tyASx9hE2JELoFeHjBVkM?si=u5r9XUy9TDe1dJk83KdOaQ)

**_I'd be the choiceless hope in grief_ **

**_That drove him underground_ **

**_I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee_ **

**_That made him turn around_ **

\- Hozier, “Talk”

 **\- - -**

Death is old. He’s more primordial than time, as ancient as God. Well, the previous God anyway; rumor has it the new one is a little more fresh. 

But Death, Death is old. And he is tired. So very tired. 

He doesn’t remember it - the moment he became Death. Was there a before? He’s not entirely certain. The strange way time moves in the veil makes the days all blend together. 

Here he is king, but of a vast nothingness. Sometimes his mind searches the void without his bidding, seeking thoughts and memories that no longer exist. Most days he finds nothing but more blank, empty space. Other days –

Other days, there is a stirring of something he can’t quite name. Things that don’t belong to Death, but call to him anyway. These twinges are irksome, irritating.

Ideally, Death would prefer not to feel anything at all. The mask of indifference is the comfortable resting spot he calls home. Like the void. Like himself, it’s empty.

And yet. . .

Death shrugs off the sentiment in an oddly familiar gesture, easing his shoulders and letting it roll off his back. An ember of vexation ignites in his chest. He adjusts his icy expression, and twists the ring on his finger. The twinges of memory poke at him, escalating the simmering anger bubbling under his skin. _Why can’t he remember?_

He wanders the breadth of his domain, traversing the void. Sometimes he accompanies the reapers, walking unseen on earth below, though he prefers to remain in the veil. He greets souls with casual acquaintance when it’s their time to go, severing the life force from their bodies with a snap of his fingers. Neat. Clean. He leaves the messy bits that come after for the reapers to handle. Death doesn’t generally have the patience for persuasion. He strolls to the wooden park bench that serves as his throne, and sits, arm draped across the back as he looks upon galaxies. 

Death glances at the stars; he feels the steady rhythm of the natural order. His gaze goes anywhere it can possibly land, just to avoid looking into the millions of piercing blue eyes floating around him in the mist.

\- - -

The veil pulses softly, gray matter swirling around the reapers as they come and go, guiding souls from earth to their final resting place. A single structure pierces through the nebulous air, its sharp lines a stark contrast in the fog. This is the Coffin, and it stretches for miles. 

Death resides in a two story apartment on the top level, easily accessible through the library. His home is strange, filled with the unnecessary. The cupboard contains jars of peanut butter and jelly even though Death does not eat. _Just in case_ , he thinks when he glances at them, the thought rising unbidden in his mind. Death often finds himself sitting at a dimly lit table covered by a map, which he never has the need to use. But it isn’t the oddly familiar smell of the place, or even the strange metal scaffolding up to the door that itches mildly but incessantly at the back of his mind. 

It’s the drawer. The one in the brown, simple nightstand in his bedroom, just to the right of his neatly made bed in which he never sleeps. The drawer that’s locked, but Death can never seem to find where he’s placed the key. 

A decanter of whiskey sits squarely in the middle of the shadowy map table. Death drinks from it often, despite the burn of the liquor never having the desired effect of escape. He rolls the glass between his palm, a smooth, practiced motion, as he sullenly ponders his duties. The worst part about presiding over the void? All of the red tape.

Reapers don’t sleep. They do, however, need time to recharge, to merge with the veil momentarily as their angelic grace is replenished by the core of its energy. This means soul collecting is shift work, assigned and scheduled by Death himself. Every morning, Death determines who reaps what, all consistent with each reaper’s grace levels, experience, and of course propensity to persuade a soul to abandon the physical realm.

Well, at least that’s what Death is supposed to do. Most days, he doesn’t really feel like it.

The banging on the door of his quarters is like a gunshot, and suddenly he’s feeling under the pillow for a pistol. _That’s weird._ Death doesn’t use a gun. He frowns as the knocking persists. 

“What?” He bellows over the sound of the television that blares down the hallway, muffling the reaper’s response. “Sir, the schedule?” The reaper’s voice is shaky.

“Sorry, pal. Didn’t get to it.” Death smirks, grabbing the remote to turn the volume up even higher. “Figure it out, I guess.” He tucks both hands behind his head, leaning back against the wall as he senses the building chaos outside the door. He smiles.

The middle floor of the Coffin directly below Death’s rooms serves as the hub of operations. Unfortunately these operations include a plethora of very long meetings, all of which Death is required to attend. The first of these begins at sunrise, and Death is already planning on chucking his scythe at the unlucky bastard who dragged him out of bed and downstairs today. The faint twinge of annoyance in his throat rises higher as the reapers go through the morning itinerary. 

A fleeting desire to be holding a cup of coffee that he does not need to drink passes through Death’s mind. He picks at the sleeve of the gray robe he’s refused to change out of, a stark contrast to the multitudes of ties and button-down shirts of the others gathered in the Great Room. 

“Sir? What do you want us to do with the next two on the list?” 

Death’s lips pull back lazily from their usual haughty pout. “Let that one die of natural causes; he’ll sputter out in a few weeks. The rest you can have. . . so-and-so take care of.”

The reaper’s black brows draw together, forehead furrowing. “So-and-so?”

Death smirks coldly. “I’m not going to bother with names. Get used to it. You all look alike, anyway.” He sinks back into the bench, his eyes catching some carving on its edge, two letters, like initials. A familiar feeling creeps into his chest. He pushes it down, irritation growing. The reaper moves on to the statistics.

It’s all about the souls - those who went willingly, those who had to be coerced.

Then, there are those who didn’t go at all. The souls who prefer to stay behind, fighting their reapers, refusing to accept that it’s the end of their time earthside. 

_Stupid._ Death scoffs. Fighting the natural way of things is a fool’s quest, an imbecile’s errand. The story’s already written. And Death’s library holds everyone’s ending. 

Death drums his fingertips against the table, suddenly missing something else underneath them, something he can’t quite place or recall. Fabric? A tan lapel flashes before his eyes. He rubs his face with the backs of his hands, his aggravation increasing.

He beckons subtly to the reaper standing closest. The reaper approaches him quietly as the meeting drones on in the background. Death frowns at the reaper’s collar. 

“Something about you isn’t quite right,” Death’s murmur is sinister as he lifts the edge of the coat, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, drawing the reaper closer to him. The reaper trembles in fear. Death cups a palm under the reaper’s chin, lifting his head towards his, thumb flush against the jawline. The reaper’s eyes are pools of blue, but something is missing from their depths. Death’s face twists in disgust. 

“Get away from me!” he bites out harshly, tossing the reaper to the side like an empty paper bag. 

The reaper at the podium clears his throat. Death looks up to find thousands of eyes fixed on him, brows drawn together. “Um, yes. Continue. I’m listening.” There’s an edge to his voice as he quickly folds his shaking hands, tucking them from sight.

 _Right, right, focus._ Death directs his attention back to the report, and it appears they have moved on to a more specific topic.

The ghosts.

The continuing, consistent, omnipresent and equally omni – ANNOYING problem of ghosts. The veil is filled with these transparent cockroaches, despite their regular darting to and from their earthly tethers. No one seems to have a plan for addressing the issue, just an endless litany of complaints. Death’s attitude, personally, is the same as it is towards everything else. He doesn’t really care.

Today’s discussion is centered on one ghost of particular concern. As the reaper continues her presentation, Death picks up whispers in the crowd. “He’s recruiting,” they murmur nervously. 

“Reapers worried about one little ghost?” Death interrupts, deriding. One of the reapers dares to look up at him from the crowd. “He’s charismatic, Sir. Every day the problem is getting bigger.”

“But it’s not really a _problem_ , is it? It’s an annoyance. Like a fly, a gnat. Like you. I still can’t figure out how to make _you_ go away.”

The reaper balks at the bite in Death’s voice. “They want to take you off your throne.”

Death is bored with this. “How? And for that matter, why? I give them more freedom than any other Death, according to all of your whining.” 

The reaper at the podium joins the discourse. “And that’s the problem,” she says, sternly. “This is a disruption. The natural order suffers.”

Dean leans forward towards her, eyes dark, “The natural order can crumble for all I care. Let this ghost tear up the veil. I’m not here to babysit you or any other of you needy reapers.” 

“Then why are you here?” The other reapers gasp at her disobedience. 

Death thinks on that briefly, but he can’t quite remember. He feels the answer, dancing right outside of reach. The trickle of exasperation intensifies, and one of Death’s eyebrows jerks up passionately. The way the reaper meets his eyes gaze for gaze, unwavering, sends an electric shock through Death. His temper ignites, a steady burn pulsating just under his skin.

“I don’t think that’s the topic today, Shelby,” Death gestures _commandingly_ towards the reaper’s scroll of data. He says the name like it’s a weapon unsheathed by his tongue; his choice to use it, a warning. _I do know your names, each and every one. But if I ever use them, know you’re on thin ice._

Death prolongs the motion, slowly unfurling his fingers like a fan, their movements creating a whirlpool of gray mist, threads twisting through the blackness of the void. The whisps become cords, encircling Shelby, twisting around her body like a snake.

Death clenches a fist, watching Shelby’s face turn red as he squeezes harder. He waits until her cheeks tinge purple before releasing her. She stares at him, shaking. Death’s lips stretch into a humorless smile.

“Please, go on.” 

_Friggin’ reapers._

\- - -

The remainder of the meeting wraps quickly, tension permeating the air like a high pitched buzz. Death stalks out of the Great Room, the intensity of his movements cutting through the throng like the hull of a boat on the sea. One reaper has the audacity to speak, but only manages a “Sir -” before Death cuts him off with a snarl.

“What was that?” All of a sudden the reaper is ricocheted out of the room by an unseen force, bouncing like a tiny ball of tan, black, and blue through the mist.

Another reaper touches him on the left shoulder as he passes, and the burning sensation Death feels is unbearable. He spins around, meeting startled blue eyes. “Who gave you the right?” Death’s voice is a feral growl. With a snap of the fingers, he sets the reaper ablaze.

He spins around to face the crowd. “Anyone else got questions?” A multitude of heads quickly shake, _no._ Death stares them down, his expression mutinous. “Good. Keep it that way.” He leaves, his rage dragging behind him, only dust in its wake.

\- - -

Death can sense the reapers’ growing concern. Their worry only unhinges him more, especially since fleeting thoughts of some past he cannot recall plague him more often every day, thwarting his desire to stay numb.

He turns one reaper into a baby for being too serious. He chucks another into the Empty for not being serious enough.

Nothing feels right, and Death can't remain calm. He jams headphones in his ears, trying to drown out the feelings with music, the steady beat breaking up the syncopation of thoughts in his head. He paces his rooms, always ending up by the nightstand, staring at the drawer. He grabs the edge of it in a moment of inspiration, wedging his slim fingertips in a gap to wrench it open. When that doesn’t work, he attacks it with his scythe in an attempt to splinter the wood.

The drawer mocks him by remaining intact and sealed shut.

Death bellows into the void, his fury churning through the mists, erupting like a volcano. Reapers are sucked into whirlpools created by his anger, spinning for hours as Death pummels the wall of his room with knuckles that never bloody or bruise.

\- - -

Death doesn’t personally attend reapings. Usually he can snuff lives from the veil itself; all it takes is a quick snap of his fingers. This reaping is different.

Something draws Death to this soul. He’s felt the nagging pull of it for days, some distant recollection pricking in his head until he can no longer take it. After he breaks ten plates in the kitchen to exorcise the agitation in his mind, and despite the desperate provocations that _Sir shouldn’t bother_ , Death insists on tagging along.

He’s on earth, standing in a hospital hallway, watching the young man who is barely holding himself together. The human rubs the tears from his eyes with one hand, the other pressed to his forehead, pushing back short dark hair as he rocks back and forth on the bench. An orderly approaches, holding his hospital clipboard, his face empty of emotion. Sterile. Unfeeling. Death watches the orderly approvingly.

 _Guy’s got a thankless job._ Death thinks, feeling something resembling empathy for those having to deal with the tangle of emotion that accompanies humans in the last chapters of life. 

“Ben?” The orderly’s voice is steady and calm. The young man looks up, squaring his shoulders, pushing back the tears as he sets his jaw.

The pricking that drew Death to this reaping is back, an incessant tap on his shoulder. He would almost call it a memory, if he had those. For once, Death pushes down the bubbling vexation that accompanies the sensation, trying to focus on the reaping. The soul in this hospital is fighting harder to stay than initially anticipated. Odd feelings aside, Death isn’t too keen on having yet another wayward spirit on his hands for the reapers to complain about. _Easiest way to deal with this ghost problem is cutting it off at the head_ , Death muses. _Reap now, ask questions later._

“Ben -” the orderly glances down at his clipboard to check the identifying information, “Ben Braeden?” The young man - Ben - nods.

“Ben, we need you for some forms. Your - your uncle, is it? It’s pretty serious.”

Ben’s shoulders deflate, all prior bravado wiped out by the words. “He, uh - he’s not really my uncle, he’s just - um, he’s a friend. A good one, he helped me out a lot. After my mom died. He took care of me.” His voice trembles, eyes darting back and forth. “Just, uh, in case you needed to know that for the forms.”

The orderly looks at the clipboard again to confirm the information. “Well, family or not, he listed you on his POA, so it looks like we have some things to discuss. Mind coming with me?”

Ben nods tersely. They walk away.

Death watches quietly, trying to remain passive, but something stirs in his chest. A lump forms in his throat. This all seems. . .familiar, somehow. Suddenly, Death has a very distinct notion that he’s been here before, not as Death, but as something - some _one_ else. Death’s expression shifts, mirroring the anguish on Ben’s as his mind searches for understanding. This is Ben’s story, but Death feels like he’s watching a scene he’s played out himself. Ben’s face. Ben’s pain. The facade put on to hide the grief. The mention of someone who’s family, but not. 

Something _twists_ in Death’s stomach.

_Family don’t end in blood, boy._

The words punch him like a calloused fist, echoing in the air. He reels for a moment in recoil. _What the fuck was that?_

Death shakes his head clear, drifting down the path Ben and the orderly took minutes earlier, sensing the frantic soul as its energy tugs Death towards the hospital room. The soul may be departing, but it’s certainly not going easy. Death feels it fighting, willing its body to stay alive, beating between this world and the veil like a thrashing bird in a cage. Anything, this soul would do anything to stay alive. 

_Please, please, please._

Death can hear the life force begging, the sheer intensity of it carving into Death’s head like a spike shoved into fresh earth. He stops mid step in the hallway, overcome momentarily by the soul’s will to survive as it continues to plead.

_Please. I have to stay. For Ben. Ben doesn’t have anyone else, please._

Another wave of emotion rolls over Death. _Why doesn’t the human have anyone else?_ He’s surprised by this question, by his own uncharacteristic curiosity. Something inside Death stirs indignantly, and anger overtakes him again. This human should have someone else. He’s young. He should still have living parents, at least one of them. Then, Death recalls Ben’s words to the orderly. “ _After my mom died._ ”

Some wall in Death’s mind trembles with just one heavy quiver, then stills. Death shakes off the fog. He enters the hospital room despite the nausea suddenly rising in his throat. The reaper is already here, waiting. He nods at Death in a tentative, fearful greeting. 

Death ignores him, shuddering as the soul’s intensity slams against him again. He staggers from the power the soul exerts to stay latched in its physical body. The energy scrapes across Death like nails on a stone wall as the soul shoves against destiny, clawing back the inevitable. Death gasps lightly. The reaper is watching him, puzzled.

 _Shit. Breathe, okay, breathe._ The sudden thought doesn’t feel like his own, but for once Death chooses to listen.

 _Beep. . .beep. . . beep_. . . The background noise of the life support machines soothe Death, and his mind steadies. He shifts his attention to the body lying prone on the hospital mattress, its breathing artificial. The soul darts back and forth above it, a faint glimmer in the air, the reaper standing at the ready, quietly moving to Death’s left hand side so the soul can see him more clearly.

 _No, no, no, get away from me, no. NO!_ The soul flashes like a firework, fighting like a dying moth against the flame of Death’s enigmatic pull. 

Death blinks his green eyes, trying to fall back into the routine of the task to calm himself. _It’s just another reaping._ All souls eventually tire, and even this one - as strong as it seems - will weaken and succumb. They all bow to the ending. The natural order. Fate. Death’s lips stretch over his teeth in a cruel smile, serene now as he settles in for the wait. All he has is time.

Not so true for the physical body in which the soul is so desperately trying to remain. 

The human Ben enters into the hospital room, and Death is drawn to his presence, pulled by the pounding panic radiating from Ben's body. He’s still fighting back tears, fists white knuckled at his sides to maintain composure. The orderly walks him through the options, and none are anything but grim. Death nods, listening to the directives in agreement. All signs point to reaping. As it should be. The soul’s light has already begun to dim, the body’s vitals dropping incrementally each passing second. Death watches as the life fades.

“Sometimes you just have to let them wear themselves out,” the reaper volunteers nervously, “this soul will pass on to the next stage soon enough.”

 _The next stage_ , Death thinks coolly as he tosses the reaper a sideways glance to indicate that further conversation isn’t needed.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

Death.

Another man has been waiting in the hallway to speak with Ben, and finally gets his turn.

“Mr. Braeden?” The man is actually _smiling._ _Unbelievable._ Death frowns, feeling another unexpected twinge pierce through him. The audacity of humanity. It’s one thing to do your job without the unnecessary muddle of emotions, but smiling at someone’s death bed seems brash. _Wow, what a dick._

Death coughs, a tiny sound, and the man shivers as Death sends a chill of warning through his body. The reaper beside him hums quietly in admonishment. Normally being so bold would cost him his head, but Death is too invested in this reaping to do away with him now. Resolving to teach the reaper a very painful lesson later, Death reluctantly drops his grasp on the man and shifts his attention back to Ben.

Ben is nodding to the other human in greeting, hands still clenched, and Death can almost feel the tension of Ben’s struggle to maintain control. The man chatters on obtusely, still too chipper for Death’s liking. “We know this is a stressful time. We’re sorry to ask but, um, did your uncle ever make his wishes known in regards to organ donation? Uh -”

Ben _snaps_ , the sudden, sharp release of anger sending a shock of electricity _through_ Death, sizzling all the way down to the backs of his heel _._ “He’s not going to die!”

The man jumps back as if slapped in the face by Ben’s shrill response. “I’m - I’m sorry,” the man holds up his hands as he backs away from Ben, “I know they’re doing everything - of course, they’re doing all they can.” 

Ben’s glaring at the man, and well - if looks could kill, Death thinks he’d be here reaping more than one soul right now. “Yeah, well they need to do better than that.” Ben takes a deep breath, clenching his teeth as he spits out the words. “He’s gonna be fine. He’s _always_ fine.” 

Something is churning inside Death as he listens, watching Ben’s face blaze with passion and rage.

“Y-yes sir, I-” the man stammers, trembling. 

“Just do your _jobs_ ! Save him!” Ben’s fist is quick as it slams into the hospital room wall behind the man. His voice is low, a dangerous growl. “Walk away from me. _Now._ ” 

Death feels Ben’s words lingering in his own mouth, tasting the heavy, thick feel of them on his tongue as if he’s said them before, feeling the anger swell in his chest. 

The man all but flies out of the room. Ben sinks into the chair, cradling his bruised knuckles, face dropping to his chest. He covers his eyes with his hands, like a prayer.

Death suddenly wonders if anyone even listens to prayers anymore. _Why does he feel like someone once listened to his?_ Death shakes his head to clear it. This is absurd. Death doesn’t pray.

“No, no, no.” Ben whispers raggedly, and it slices into Death’s chest, tearing at him like a stab. “Please. Please, no.” Ben looks over at the body, the machines, the tubes. 

“Please,” he whispers again, “Someone help me. I don’t have anyone left.” Swallowing, Ben lifts his tear filled eyes to the sky. “Please. I hope you can hear me. Please. I hope it’s not too late.”

_“I hope you can hear me. . . that wherever you are, it’s not too late.”_

The voice speaking those words is Death’s own, filing his mind, crackling in his ears like lightning. Death’s face spasms, twitching, as the prayer rings out like a bell. He stands frozen. Something turns over in his mind again, nagging at him. _Something. . .familiar._

Death turns his attention back to Ben, helpless in the hospital room. He’s got that feeling again, like he _remembers_ this moment, like he lived it himself. _Impossible_ , he snorts at the notion derisively. But something inside Death can feel it, like he is there. He senses the cold stiffness of the hospital chair underneath his body. The bitter taste of helpless desperation rises in Death’s own throat. 

Death wonders why he’s waiting for Ben to turn his head to the empty seat next to him. _Someone should be there_ , Death thinks. Someone _was_ there, . . . bonded in the brotherhood of grief, sharing it. 

No one else is there for Ben.

Death watches the slump of Ben’s shoulders as the human bows his head back down, shaking hands covering his eyes as his lips keep moving, soundlessly now. Still praying. 

Death turns his attention to the hospital bed. As anticipated, the soul’s resolve is weakening. Just a few moments and Death will be able to slide it from the body easily. He can see the thinning tether between the physical and spiritual forms, the connection just a scant thread of golden light. The pulse of the life force slows as time takes its toll. The natural order, progressing as it should.

Death contemplates. His eyes drag back over Ben, and something inside of Death something fissures, cracking slightly. He glances back at his reaper, ready and waiting. The reaper’s expression is expectant. Steady.

Death shakes his head.

“Not this one.”

The reaper’s brows knit together, his face filling with confusion. He tugs his tie lightly and pulls a notepad out of his coat pocket. “But sir - he’s on the list.” Death shakes his head again, more firm this time. “Marvin. I _said_ , not this one.” He looks at Ben, something warm, sad, and lost burning in his chest, and jerks his head to the door. 

“Let’s go.” 

The reaper is in disbelief, gaping at Death in shock. “B-b-but Sir? The natural order. We can’t leave this soul unreaped at the end of its time. There are cosmic consequences!” Death’s gaze is stern, green eyes piercing into blue.

“Did you forget? _I’m Death_.” He waves the reaper along. “This is a dictatorship. What I say goes.” 

He hears Ben’s inhalation of surprise as the soul rejoins its body and his friend gasps for oxygen. The connection with the earth is restored, the pull of Death abating. Death’s own link to the soul starts to fade, but he reaches out one last time, forcing the tether to thrum before it disappears.

 _Damn the consequences. Cosmic or not._ Death glances back at the body rejoined with its soul, seeing past the physical form, and the light within the man twinkles back at Death, as if in gratitude. Death shivers as he turns away.

Ben’s hoarse sobs of joy follow them down the hallway as they leave. As Ben calls for the nurse, Death feels the messy echoes of the human’s emotions ricochet through him. He senses the sharp jolts of gratitude and love as Ben is wrapped in comforting familial warmth. His vision starts to spin, and he is thinking, _remembering_ , his own voice surfacing in his mind again. 

_I have a family._

The thought is a shooting star, burning brightly, a searing heat in the depths of Death's chest.

As soon as they’re back in the veil, the emotion fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endless thanks to my betas - Rayah, Linds, and Fells; y'all are amazing for putting up with my clunky drafts :)
> 
> AND THANK YOU to those signal boosting, sharing, reading and ESP leaving comments!! I live to wallow in them <3


	4. Eyes Glaze Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you call me?” Death asks, breathless. Something flutters tightly in the middle of his chest.
> 
> Cas swallows, straightening up as he leans towards him. 
> 
> “Dean. It’s us.” He breathes, then quietly adds, “It’s me.”
> 
> For a moment Death is hypnotized, transfixed by this strange being. He wants to run, far away. He wants to stay until he can understand it. He wants to know why blue eyes follow him everywhere, and why these blue eyes feel like the only ones that have ever been real. 
> 
> Cas reaches a hand towards him. Death jerks away.
> 
> The lights flicker.
> 
> “Don’t touch me.”

[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1I7KVV5mfBnoUe5A2LGgXT?si=_MDqKV8WSumGZU_-vAGzRg)

**_Screaming the name of a foreigner’s god_ **

**_The purest expression of grief_ **

\- Hozier, “Foreigner’s God”

\- - -

Cas stands in the bunker kitchen alone, fingers tracing the smooth glass sides of the coffee pot. Somehow his feet have led him back here, stumbling of their own volition to another place where everything reminds Cas of Dean. His lips twist wryly as he remembers recreating this same kitchen in his mind when Lucifer possessed his body, years ago. 

Except now it’s just a painful reminder of everything he’s lost. Cas’s eyes linger wistfully on the little rabbit-eared TV perched on the edge of the steel kitchen counter. It’s silent now, but Cas can almost hear the sounds of Dean’s favorite black and white westerns, the pounding of hoofbeats and gunshots ringing in his ears.

_ I miss you. _ He opens the pantry, stands there for a moment staring at its contents. Peanut butter and jelly gather dust on the middle shelf. Cas picks up an old honeycomb, fiddling it between his fingers. He runs a thumb over the hand lettered label for a jar of “ _ Burger seasoning ONLY don’t you friggin put this on your kale Sammy. _ ” The corners of Cas’s mouth tug, but refuse to turn all the way up. 

Sam calls his name from the study, and Cas pulls himself from his reverie, heading towards the sound of his voice.

\- - -

“We’ve summoned Death twice - once I was there, once Dean did it himself. We bound him the first time; that’s the best spell to use, I think.” Sam is rifling through books at warp speed as he talks, pacing, the room buzzing with his nervous energy. 

_ Research mode activated _ , Dean would call it. The thought provokes a pang of fondness in Cas, and for the first time that day it’s not tinged with pain. 

The comforting feeling fades as Sam’s words start to sink in.

“What did you just say about Death?” Cas’s voice is still gruff from disuse, his posture tensing. Sam, glued to the page he’s reading, barely glances up as he circles something in the margins. “Sam.” The slight hitch in Cas’s voice gets Sam’s attention.

“I said we’re going to summon him.”

Cas glances at the journal, open on the table.  _ No.  _ Sam follows his gaze, and pushes the hair back from his forehead with a sigh. “This is our best shot, Cas. I think you know that,” he says firmly. 

Cas shakes his head slowly. “It’s not him.” Dean’s handwriting winks from the journal’s pages at Cas, mocking him.  _ He wouldn’t. _

Sam follows Cas’s gaze, and his face softens. He touches Cas’s shoulder lightly. “Cas, I get you probably need a little more time to wrap your head around this, but, uh. . .” Sam scratches the back of his neck. “I think we need to do it now, before Jack gets back. Just in case Dean is -” Sam’s mouth twists to the side, and he decides not to say it. “He’s only checking in with Heaven for a few hours.”

Before Cas can respond, Rowena walks into the study holding an assortment of bowls, setting them on the table. “If the man’s gone and become Death, then we’ll just have to bring him back, won’t we?” 

Cas’s heart is speeding up in his chest. 

Rowena clucks sympathetically. “At least he’s still around then, right? That’s positive.”

“Actually, no.” Sam tears open a bag of something green and smelly. His face is drawn. “I know this isn’t what any of us want to think about right now, but it’s better if Dean’s just dead.” Rowena looks at him, puzzled.

“Yeah, so -” Sam pauses, like he needs the extra breath for strength. He closes his eyes for a pained second, then continues grinding the herbs into the largest bowl. “If we know where his soul is, Jack - and now Cas - should be able to reach him. But if he . . .”

Cas looks at the small piece of paper with Dean’s list of books darkly. “If he’s Death, we have no domain,” he says.  _ Even God wouldn't have power over Death. _ Cas looks down at his hands, trying to will his brain into functioning. His own words make him sick to his stomach, hanging over the room like a dark cloud, the feeling of dread choking him.

Sam’s jaw tightens. “Look, Cas - I don’t want it to be true as much as you. But either way, our next step has to be summoning Death.” 

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to think about this, he doesn’t want the knowledge, the confirmation that Dean’s plan worked and he’s now. . .Cas shudders. The very idea of this feels like it’s too much. But Sam is right.

Cas swallows, forcing himself to meet Sam’s eyes. “Okay, ” he says, the word barely a breath.

Sam turns his attention back to the spell work. “I um, I think I’m almost done.” His eyes dart to Rowena for approval. Rowena observes the table calculatingly as if doing inventory. Her small hands touch in a soft, approving clap. “Oh, my little Sam-witch,” she murmurs, “I think you’ve got it all absolutely right. And that’s my cue,” she says, trailing a hand through Sam’s hair as she gathers her bag. “Do keep me posted, as you do.”

Rowena gives Cas a quick pat on the head and winks at him. “Hell can’t run itself. I’ll be back soon though.” She throws Sam one last glance. “Always am.”

Sam looks at Cas. “Ready?” 

Cas isn’t, but nods in affirmation anyway. He stands, squaring his shoulders. Sam begins the incantation, readying the match.

A sick, heavy feeling begins to permeate the air. Their surroundings  _ shimmer _ , blurring in and out of focus.

\- - -

Death has a headache.

He rubs his temples tightly, trying to shut out the chaos surrounding him. He feels the presence of the reapers clustering around the veil, their whispers of concern like buzzing gnats in his mind. The tears in the void scratch at Death, these physical violations of his domain feeling like a personal affront to his space. He pulls at his robes, tugging them around him like they’re armor, protecting his own body from invasion.

Shoving away the visions of blue eyes that follow him without failure, never too far from his sight.

The mists swirl around him and he hears the faint whispers of ghosts, mocking him as they blink in and out of the veil, chattering about uprisings and revolutions. He growls back at them,  _ go ahead - try me, you assholes _ , swiping at the unseen with his scythe. 

The spirits disperse unharmed, trailing their taunting laughter behind them. Death tosses the wooden handle of the scythe between his hands.  _ You’re a lousy weapon _ , he thinks at it. 

Death knows, of course, that his scythe isn’t really a weapon at all, but a tool of the harvest. Neutral. Peaceful. There to be at Death’s side when he gathers the souls for reaping, not brandished and wielded against any enemy, human or otherwise. In fact, there is a very limited number of things the scythe is permitted to physically harm or kill.

Just one.

Death himself.

The honed silver edge of the scythe glints in the light of an open window, twinkling at Death like a falling star.  _ What a waste of something so sharp _ , Death ponders, catching a glimpse of his own green eye reflected in the metal.  _ What’s the point? I’d rather you be a knife. Or a sword.  _ Death’s eyebrows draw together. Did he have a sword, once? 

He’s pulled out of the idea almost immediately, distracted by the pulsing of his tether to the rest of the veil.

The reapers won’t stop calling him. The telepathic link vibrates as they fire message after message through the connection, their voices becoming more frantic and frequent when Death refuses to respond. The incessant thrumming is enough to make anyone want to punch a hole in the wall.

Death groans.

_ Doesn’t the void have friggin’ voicemail? _

His fingers suddenly long to be wrapped around a cold beer, a fishing pole across his legs. He can almost feel the condensation on his palm, the slim weight of the rod as it rests on his thigh. He frowns.

Peace and quiet. That’s all he wants, can’t they give it to him for a solitary damn moment? He chucks a ball of power down the tether in an attempt to silence the connection. It works for a second.

But now his own television is too loud, and the sun is too bright, and there’s no lake here, there’s no distant chirping of birds. No rustle of wings. No one by his side keeping him quiet, easy company as the fish splash in the water.

_ Why is he thinking about fish? _

Suddenly the air around him blurs and something feels drastically off. 

Death feels it come on gradually - the weight of being trapped. He tries to fight as it pulls him in its undertow like a rough ocean tide. He kicks his legs at his unseen captors, thrashes his hands as the binding encircles them.  _ What the hell, get off me! _ His efforts are fruitless. He is tugged like a puppet on a string, dragged and yanked, until suddenly the world stops spinning and he is somewhere else. 

Somewhere. . .familiar. He keeps a firm grip on his scythe as he turns, stepping into the dim lamplight assessing his surroundings.

Death is suddenly aware of the presence of a map table in the center of this room, puzzlingly similar to the one in his quarters. He walks over to it, confusion flitting over his features as he runs a hand over the surface. 

The shape of a lamp shining brightly on a pile of books draws him across the room, but what keeps him standing there is the sight of a plain notebook. He pauses, frozen in place as he squints at the handwritten words scribbled across the pages. Something hot buzzes through his veins; his arms start to prickle as his stomach feels heavy with nausea. Death shudders before turning away.

_ Something about this place is not right. _

Then he sees it - the face. A face that sends off a flare at the back of his mind. He’s not in the mists, so how is he still seeing  _ them _ . . . blue eyes. Gazing at him, open wide in shock.  _ More reapers?  _

Except this isn’t a reaper, it’s. . . something else. Still not entirely human. 

An angel.

Death’s expression is tense as he tries to assess the true form occupying this vessel, but he’s too distracted by the eyes, dazed and blinking. 

He leans forward, intrigued. The blue eyes move closer, and there’s something in them, something they’re trying to say. Death peers deeper.  There's feeling here. Blue-eyed emotions, not his own. This creature is something  _ other _ , and it refuses to break his gaze. He shouldn't feel unhinged, but he does, teetering on the edge just moments from falling. He can see it in the angel's eyes, even if he doesn't fully understand it - fear. Longing. 

_ I miss you. _

Death’s fingers twitch, the binding sparking on his slim wrists. 

The blue eyes close the gap between them as the angel takes another step forward, his feet inching towards him as if tempted to break into Death’s personal space. 

"Cas,--" another voice, a warning as the angel gets too close.

_ Cas.  _ The name, foreign but familiar. Death rolls it around in his mind, trying on the feel of it, easing into it like an old jacket that hasn’t been worn in a long time.

Death drags a predatorial glance down Cas’s body, gaze roaming over the shape underneath the trench coat. Something about the angel calls to him, beckons Death closer. 

_ Come back to me.  _

Death’s hand darts out, grabbing at Cas's jaw, lifting his face higher, cupping it the same way he caressed the reaper in his Great Room. 

He immediately feels the contrast, even if the skin’s texture is the same. It’s like looking at a painting of something exquisite only to turn around and see the real thing that served as its muse.

Death can sense - Cas's - breath on him, while his own speeds up as he quickly becomes overwhelmed, taking in the reality of his omnipresent ghosts. Detailed, nuanced. 

Alive. 

"Who are you?" he whispers.

He sees the cracks, first. The angel pulls back, taking a step away, the light inside him shattering like fragile glass. He bites back his pink, unsteady lip as his blue eyes shutter, and he sways slightly. A tall, lanky shadow rushes up to support him before he can buckle to the floor.

Death turns his attention to his second captor.  _ No creature _ , he thinks, unnerved. No angel. Something very, very human. He towers over the angel, but for some reason to Death he seems small. In need of protection.

Cas blinks, his gaze still locked on Death. “You don’t remember,” he breathes. A revelation.

Death looks at the lights, at the floor. 

“What is this place?”  Death spits out the words and starts to pace, his irritation buzzing around him; a hornet trapped in a glass jar. 

“You shouldn’t have summoned me. Pretty bad freaking idea.” His footfalls thrum a steady beat as he walks, their staccato escalating with each hurried step. “Do you even know who I am?”

“You’re Death,” the taller one croaks as if he can’t believe the words leaving his own mouth.

“Sam,” Cas says, laying a soft hand on his arm. 

Sam swallows. Red patches mottle his neck. Death feels an abrupt, unexpected wave of sadness as he sees Sam’s shoulders droop, his face pinching. He shakes it off, letting the fury within him rip the sensation to smithereens.

Cas is staring at Death like it’s hurting him to breathe the same air. Death feels the eyes sear through him, like they’re searching for something deep inside. The exposure is. . .unpleasant.

Cas’s entire body begins to shake, small, escalating tremors. Death senses his emotion as it intensifies, heavy and thick. The noxious fumes of this strange being’s grief fill Death’s nostrils and choke his throat. Cas rocks back and forth, eyes squeezing shut. His lips start to move soundlessly. Like he’s praying. Like he’s saying goodbye. 

_ Mourning. _

Witnessing something so private and vulnerable is unsettling - even for Death, so he looks over at Sam instead, finally responding to his words from moments before.

“I’m Death,” he agrees darkly, head tipping down in irritation. “And now you’ve pissed me off. Why am I here?”

Sam’s mouth trembles as his eyes dart between Death and Cas. “I know this is going to be ah, difficult to believe, but you know us. We’re your family.”

Cas swallows, blinking heavily. His eyes are open again, staring blankly, like all his processing power has been shut off. Death turns towards him without meaning to, his entire being gravitating towards Cas. His face softens for a beat, then immediately hardens again as he forces himself to look away from the angel, features growing colder. 

Sam takes a step closer to Death, hands outstretched like an offering. “It’s us. You don’t remember us at all?”

“Nope.” But then, Death considers the blue eyes. The multitudes of blue eyes following him, surrounding him, always staring back at him. He turns to Cas, and his anger rises as those same blue eyes meet his green ones.  _ Maybe. . . _

“You,” he says suddenly, low and accusing. “You did this.”

“I - what?” 

Death stalks over to the chair, studying Cas intently. His movements are erratic, eyes flashing as he approaches. A sinister sneer stretches across his features. Something spins inside him wildly, and he can feel the electricity spreading, like lightning running through his veins. Suddenly they’re so close that he can feel the heat of Cas’s breath. Death’s eyes narrow, glinting with hostility.

“What are you, some kind of curse?” He fires the words out like barbs. “Some punishment thought up just for me, here to chase me around for all eternity?” 

“Dean, please.” Cas says, soft and quiet. Suddenly it’s like a curtain is flung open, and Death is looking at Cas for the first time, really seeing him, and he’s dragging Death in like a whirlpool. He inhales the scent of him - salty air and fire-scorched earth. Death’s own eyes grow wide. His scythe wobbles, tilting slightly to the side as his grip on it loosens.

“What did you call me?” Death asks, breathless. Something flutters tightly in the middle of his chest.

Cas swallows, straightening up as he leans towards him. 

“Dean. It’s us.” He breathes, then quietly adds, “It’s me.”

“What did you call me?” Death asks, breathless. Something flutters tightly in the middle of his chest.

Cas swallows, straightening up as he leans towards him. 

“Dean. It’s us.” He breathes, then quietly adds, “It’s me.”

For a moment Death is hypnotized, transfixed by this strange being. He wants to run, far away. He wants to stay until he can understand it. He wants to know why blue eyes follow him everywhere, and why  _ these _ blue eyes feel like the only ones that have ever been real. 

Cas reaches a hand towards him. Death jerks away.

The lights flicker.

“Don’t touch me.”

\- - -

Cas takes a step back. Death -  _ Dean _ \- towers over him, his face a stranger. Cas stares at him, his mind going to the dark place Dean had to be in to make this decision, the desperation Dean must have felt to lead him to this act of self-harm.  _ Because that’s what this is, you idiot, you martyr _ . Cas feels a jolt of anger at the thought, but it’s tinged with deep sadness.  _ Dean, what were you thinking?  _

And now Dean is gone, in his place something cold, unrecognizable. Dean’s beautiful face, but it’s carved in stern marble. 

_ I love you. _

The thought comes to Cas abruptly, unplanned. Dean’s expression twitches slightly as he jerks his eyes to Cas’s, and for a minute Cas thinks he must have said the words out loud. He tries to gather himself, but composure is impossible because - although Dean’s face is different - his eyes are the same. Those green eyes that haunted his dreams in the Empty. Cas gazes into them and just then he sees it, a tiny shred of the old Dean. Like a small pinprick of light piercing a sea of tall green grass. Cas’s palms twitch, needing to reach out, to feel the texture of Dean’s skin on his own fingers.

But he can’t. His arms hang at his sides, limp and useless.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice cracks mid-sentence. “Please. I know you’re in there. You can fight this.”

Suddenly Death laughs, a sinister sound. “Well, I don’t know you.” The gruesome smirk cleaves his face like a jagged crack as he throws a glance at Cas. “And I’m sure as hell not your family. Or yours,” he spits at Sam. “Now let me  _ go _ , before I get really fed up and show you what I’m actually capable of.” 

Sam’s eyebrows are twitching, a small jerky movement, while he clenches and unclenches his fists. Cas watches him, knowing Sam's mind is running ten miles a minute thinking, always thinking about what to do next. Cas takes a breath, willing himself into action.

Stiffening visibly, Cas turns to Dean. “No,” he says. The word is careful, guarded. “You need help. And you may not know or remember, but this is not you.” He shakes his head. 

Dean snarls at him. “What the hell are you, anyway? You’re not human. Why the hell are you even here?”

“I’m a . . .friend.” Cas says, delayed.

“Nah,” Dean dismisses him. “I don’t think so. Hope you were a good lay, gorgeous, because honestly you’re clearly forgettable. All of you.”

Sam clears his throat uncomfortably. “Okay, Dean -  _ Death. _ So you forgot us. Forgot yourself. Even more reason you need us.” 

“Need you?” Dean laughs. “This place? Disgusting. You people? Whiny. Pathetic. And you know what, frankly?  _ Clingy _ . I’m better off with my reapers and even they’re one degree from being practically worthless. Now undo this binding before I get really mad.”

Cas glances at Sam, whose face is a mirror to his own, engulfed in pain and sadness.

_ It’s not Dean _ , he reminds himself. Not anymore.

Dean peers at both of them, chuckling. “Oh,” he says finally. “I get it. You thought you’d come rescue me.  _ Me. _ Like knights in shining armour. You thought you’d find me a crying mess without you. Look, whatever pathetic piece of shit you knew, one thing is clear to me now. I’m better off.” He flexes his fingers. “Now remove this binding before I turn you and this ratty place into ashes.”

“Dean . . .” Sam’s voice is tinged with a note of desperation.

“Stop  _ calling me that. _ ” Dean growls, spinning around to face Sam. “I’m the fucking king of the reapers,” he says darkly. He stalks back and forth in the room, and the bunker begins to rattle and shake. The lights flicker, popping out one by one. 

Dean trains his gaze back on Cas, his expression sharp and mutinous. Cas shivers - and Dean’s eyes snap,like hot embers in a dying fire, blazing as his upper lip curls into a snarl. He looks Cas up and down like he’s about to crush him under his footsteps. 

Dean leaps forward, springing like a cat until his face is a hair’s breadth from Cas’s. Cas shifts uncomfortably as if in pain. He searches Dean’s eyes again, but the trace of humanity he glimpsed earlier is nowhere to be found. He watches as the slits of Dean's pupils narrow. Dean is twisting the scythe in his hand, a calculating look on his features, like he's considering something. Abruptly, Cas finds himself pinned to the wall.

Dean’s face is twisted and feral as he pulls Cas’s head to the right, loosening his tie with one fluid movement. Lightning quick, he lashes out with the scythe, grazing the exposed left side of Cas’s neck. Red blood blooms on Cas’s white shirt as Dean pushes the metal edge in deeper, the droplets spattering on his trench coat. Death presses a wrist to the wound. Cas feels something hot stab through him like he’s being burned by a stove.

Branded.

Dazed, Cas can barely make out Sam's voice through the din in his ears. "Cas, the spell - it's breaking. . .I can't hold it!" 

Cas pushes through his shock, tries one more time. "Dean. Fight this. Remember me." He pins his gaze to Dean's. "Remember us."

Dean shoves Cas to the ground and backs away, Cas’s blood a dull smear on the shining blade of the scythe. He throws his head back in a peal of laughter. “Do you not get it yet? You small, insignificant specks? You  _ bugs _ ? How could you possibly matter to something like me?”

The rings binding his wrists start to sputter as Dean gestures, fingers unfurling like a fan. “I am older than time. I am more powerful than God. Eventually, all face me. And I am the one who always wins.”

The smile that pulls across Dean’s lips is not one any human could possibly make. His chin tugs down, face dark.

“I’m Death.”

Something is burning in Cas’s nostrils, his neck throbbing as smoke fills the room. His vision blurs in and out. The last sound Cas hears before things go black entirely is the low, sinister cackle as the spell falls apart and Dean is whisked back into the veil.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shout out to Emily (lilac-void) - your art motivated me to get to the finish line of this chapter, and the imagery actually inspired a little extra thread that I am super excited about! (hint: it has to do with the scythe ;))
> 
> As always, a million butterflies of gratitude for my beta readers - Rayah, Fells, and Linds, I can't ever give you back the countless hours you spend helping me but I will continue showering you with my undying appreciation [Linds I know you just read that overly flowery sentence and you're mentally cutting out half the adjectives SHHH]. 
> 
> Finally, a fond pat on the head for Kayla - thanks for helping me with this chapter's playlist and always supporting my strange hobbies, even if you refuse to get your own tumblr acct. ILY <3


End file.
